The Diary of Pope Sleipnir.

Previous Papal Pearls

Introduction

She's cold, she's snowy, she's cool

One of the mistakes.

Spring Tide

Weeds in the Garden

The Wolf Man Howleth

Preacherman

"CL" journal

Tuesday, 29 March 2005

At Christmas Brent took us out to the North End of Kapiti Island, to go diving from his boat. Well, I didn't go diving, but he and little Lizzie did. Talk about preparations overwhelming the deed. But I digress. On the way home we stopped to fish. Paul wanted to desperately. Out go the lines, on goes the bait, down goes the hook and almost immediately a fish bites. Up comes the fish. Paul has been dreaming of this moment for months - the moment he gets the fish knife and kills the fish with it. Stab, stab, mutilate, etc. Trouble is, we were in an inflatable boat and Paul wasn't going to wait for anything. No way. The minute that poor fish comes out of the water, Paul grabs the fishing knife (sharp bloody thing let me tell you), yelling, I'll kill it, I'll kill it, I'll stab it, and heads for that fish with murder in his eyes. I had sudden visions of that knife going right through the boat, and us all swimming back to the island. Not impossible, I suppose, but it would have been bloody cold and dangerous. Hmmmm.... NO, NO, I yell at Paul, Paul doesn't hear me, stab stab goes the knife, Brent tries to grab it away from him, Brent almost loses an ear, STOP I yell at Paul, What? says Paul, what's the matter Dad? Boat tips, Paul almost goes overboard (knife still in hand). We survived, just. The fish didn't. We finally managed to get in on a wooden board so that Paul could murder it. Blissful satisfaction as the fish gets hacked to death. Oh yeah. Three cheers for young males.

What reminded me of this? Well, today I caught a cab to Albany from Borax or wherever the conference was. With the famous Albert and Genevieve. We started talking about computers and suchlike stuff, as math nerds are wont to do. Bad move. The driver thought computers were the work of the devil and he prays to God to get them out of his life and people who use computers are really just purveyors and examiners of child porn and devil worship and criminals and con artists and bad people all around. Really. So he turns around in his seat and lets fly at us. I look at Albert. He looks at me. We look at Genevieve. An uncomfortable silence falls. The driver takes this for moral cowardice (which it is) and launches a second strike. Whoo Boy. But, never fear, James to the rescue. Clever me noticed that he said something about fishing. Oh, says I, you like fishing? A pause in the tirade follows. Yeah, says the driver, and switches talk. Fishing this, fishing that, salmon trout, sharks, crocodiles, how Survivor programs on TV aren't reals survival, where am I from, oh, Noo Zeeland, oh yeah, good fishin' there, yee haw, all right. I sigh quietly to myself and take on the role of matey talker, hairy chest conversationalist and all round tough guy outdoorsman. The driver is happy, Albert and Genevieve can chat French in peace for the trip, and it's only poor old me who has to suffer. I'm so noble I make my teeth ache.

Fun conference at a fancy arse resort in Borax. Or something like that. No, I remember, Lenox. Lenox, MA. The Cranwell resort. Overpriced and pretentious, but comfortable. I had the tower room, which was 5 times as much space as I actually needed. But the pool was nice. Nicer than the talks of course, which mostly I slept through. Albert said I snored. I said I didn't. Genevieve said I did. I gave up at that point and sat at the back. My own talk was wildly successful, with all the crowd throwing their underwear and flowers. Course it helped that my hair is still green. Oh boy, the number of times I've had to field that one. Yes, my hair is green. Yes, I dyed it. Yes, on purpose. Why? (Insert here story of your choice. I try to think up a different one each time. they are getting quite elaborate now.)

Apart from the green hair, a relatively uneventful summer. Lovely time in Wellington avec family. Dad's 70th birthday in the Dunny Tin was a blast. Took me back, took me back. John wore a tight little leopard-skin number while I went with Laura Ashley florals and an orange cardy. Nothing like a bit of cross-dressing to grab attention. Cross dressing AND bright green hair. Works for me. We even found two old school ties. And wore them, too. The girls decked themselves out in 70s fashions but didn't look as handsome as John and me. Couldn't expect that, of course. The Taieri was cold as all fuck but we went in anyway, just for old times sake. I think the crumblies had a blast. We certainly did.

Friday, 4 February 2005

This time it was my aunt. Not a genetically related aunt let me be quick to assure you (which is a great relief to me in my moments on introspection) but an aunt nonetheless. Oh, said she, you haven't updated your blog for a while. A brief silence fell; this is unusual when I'm chatting with Fiona. You could hear my jaw hitting the floor with a quiet thud. Fuck, what have I been writing, fuck, what have I been writing, fuck, what have I...... It was so long ago I couldn't remember. How shameful. While that paragon of blog non-writing, the snow lady, keeps updating regularly, the paragon of gratuitous obscenity (that would be me) doesn't.

Fiona and I were, not as usual, chatting at a math conference. Why was she there, I hear you ask. A good question. By the end of the week I suspect she was wondering also. This would be a week in Napier during which the sun never shone, the talks never sparkled, and the coffee was overly expensive. I, of course, was happy sitting in the talks and muttering to myself about how full of shit the speaker was. That would be the fucking speaker, usually. Fiona didn't have that particular entertainment and was reduced to walking up and down the waterfront looking out for handsome men. There were too many mathematicians in town for that hunt to be successful.

My hair is fading to a sort of genteel teal. The fluorescent bright blue/green only lasted for a few weeks. All good things come to an end, huh? I wanted to be the first plenary speaker at the New Zealand Mathematics Colloquium to have bright green hair. I think I was. Sarah, typically, didn't have the balls to go all green herself, even if Daddy paid for it. I refused to pay for merely green streaks. If she didn't have the balls to do it properly, I sure as hell wasn't going to pay for it. I have to admit that my own courage failed me yesterday, also. The last talk was on Mathematical Rumours. At the end I was going to ask the speaker to comment on the rumour that my uncle wears ladies' underwear. I didn't. The speaker did a superlative job of turning a potentially entertaining topic into something excruciatingly dull. I'm sure he practised. He had to. Nobody gets that good without a lot of hard work.

I have spent far too much time killing beasties in WoW. How pathetic. Me, a grown man, playing at computer games. Obviously I suffer from problems. As Sarah would say, I have issues. Which is why I throw a spaz (according to her). How terrible it is to be a teenager and be so misunderstood while knowing so much.

Friday, 24 September 2004

I hate Windows. More than you can possibly imagine. In a fit of terrible weakness I purchased a cheap-arse second-hand piece of shit Windows machine for the kids to use. Silly me. No sooner purchased than every single damn fuckwit advertiser saw fit to force their horrible fucking pop-up bloody windows on my computer. Until it became impossible to use online. Just couldn't do it. And what's bloody worse, was that half that pop-up bullshit was advertising anti-popup bullshit software. What the bloody hell is with that? Do they think I'm such a moron? Do they really imagine I'll rush out to buy their shitty software which is the one causing the problem in the first place? Hell no. Not if they were the last damn software company on the face of this earth and hell was frozen over.

Go online and get a free thingy to block all that stuff, said colleagues. All right, thought I, give it a whirl, so I go online, wait for bloody hours to download a piece of software advertised (I kid you not) as FREEWARE. As in FREE. No money. Understand? So I download this piece of shit, install it, run it through, and get the wonderful wonderful message that YES, I have 128 viruses and bits of malicious software on my computer, and would I like them cleaned out. YES!!! say I, and press the YES button. Oh, says the software, if you actually want me to DO anything, not just sit around with my finger so far up my arse I can pick my teeth, if you actually want results, that will cost you...... $29.95. You fuckers. You miserable, whining, shit-eating, sheep-fucking, sons of whores. You can take your piece of FREE software and shove it up a goat's cunt.

God save me from Windows and George Bush.

Oh, and it's Monique's birthday today. She turns 28, and she is just as beautiful today as when she really was 28.

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Thursday, 16 September 2004

I'm switching domain hosts so the comments (both mine and yours) might be screwy for a short while. Come to think of it, mine are almost always screwy anyway. Don't worry. Civilisation as we know it will prove stronger and will survive the experience.

Linkin Park sucks. Believe me. I know. I've been made to listen to it way too much. Avril Lavigne is listenable. Actually, she's not bad, if a little overproduced. A lot overproduced. So overproduced she's almost silicon. But apart from that she's OK. Evanescence I call The Lodger 'cause she sounds like she's got something large stuck up her arse. Pity she can't sing more than three different notes. It makes it difficult to get variety. There's only so much you can do with such a limited repetoire. Shakira is cute as all hell but has only ever written one song.

And Sarah has been told that if she fails her math test she is in trouble. As in big trouble. As in banned from the computer. For a month. One way or another she is going to care about passing her math class. I personally guarantee it. It's proving difficult to get through to Sarah that her nail varnish is actually less important than her math revision. Truly so, it is. Really. Trust me.

Believe it or not I actually gigged again last weekend. I even enjoyed it. Playing Irish jazz. Weird, huh? It's not meant to be Irish jazz but that's what it sounds like when I play it. Still, better than diddly-di straight up which can give me hives. Is it time to play seriously again? Is it? Is it not? The question raises its ugly head.

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Wednesday, 8 September 2004

My guy can now made bows of exceptional quality. Damn, I am so good. But he can't make crossbows yet. Hmmm..... that sounds like yet another 200000000 hours of boredom chopping wood.

Sarah: Do you like my music, Dad?
Dad: Well, it's not bad, but when I have to listen to it over and over again, all day every day it gets pretty irritating I have to say.
Sarah: Yes, I understand. I suppose if I had to listen to your voice all day every day, over and over again, saying the same old things, it would get pretty annoying. Oh no, wait. I do.......

Our dog/rat/cat is about to fail dog training school. Colour me unsurprised. It needs me there to kick it. But the teacher would complain about dog brutality. Why? It's just a dog. You kick it, it shuts up. Works every time, so why should I drop a winning strategy?

I got way too drunk at the last math conference. Oh dear. The organiser confiscated my car keys so I had to walk home 4 kilometres in the rain, at some ungodly hour. Not that I was going to drive anyway. I'd rather live a little longer. I think that my graduate student also got drunk and said some things she probably shouldn't have. She's lucky I'm a nice guy and would never let on.

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Friday, 27 August 2004

Woo Hoo, comments. I think. I have, of course, lost all my previous readers (which I'm sure is a good thing) but it suddenly occurred to me how I could get comments working again. So I did.

The US government is a really wonderful institution. Give instructions to your military to torture prisoners, send over "advisors" to help them, and then, when you get caught out, put the lowest rung of the ladder on trial to try to cover your arse. I don't think anybody is fooled. Except, of course, for the 100,000,000 Americans who will vote for Georgie-Peorgie come the election. Scary.

My last two cab rides in the US:

1. Get in, look at driver. Clearly Arabic.
Driver: So, whaddya think about the war in EYE-RACK?
Me: Er.... well..... (thinking hard).... very shocking, terrible, er........
Driver: Yeah, that damn Bush, he has no business going and invading....... blah blah blah
(I sit back quietly for the ride, saying nothing).

2. (Same day, some hours later). Get in, look at driver. Straggly beard, huge fat belly, baseball cap on backwards, chewing tobacco, some sort of football T-shirt.
Driver: So, whaddya think about the war in EYE-RACK?
Me: Er.... well..... (thinking hard).... very shocking, terrible, er........
Driver: Yeah, those damn turrests, 'bout time we kicked some ass....... blah blah blah
(I sit back quietly for the ride, saying nothing).

I am such a diplomat I impress myself.

On a different, but similar, note, one of my colleagues has the biggest ego this side of the equator. Doesn't feel he's treated with the respect his status deserves. Maybe, think I, if you weren't such an egotistical twat you'd get a bit more respect. Never seems to occur to him though. I get right up his nose. I wonder how. And now he's leaving. I mouth the correct platitudes in the minimum acceptable quantity, and underneath breath a sigh of relief.

Mind you, if you think about it for just a second you realise that the only reason we don't get along is because I'm also an egotistical twat. Hmmmm...... Oh dear.

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Saturday, 21 August 2004

Kate: Daniel likes me, I think, Dad.
Dad: Well, of course he does, wee girl. Everybody does, because you're so wonderful.
Kate: Oh DAD, don't be silly. The boys are SCARED of me.
Dad: Oh, really? Why so?
Kate: I KISS them Dad! Duh!

Sunday, 15 August 2004

Dear diary,

I know I have neglected you shamefully, but, quite frankly, what are you going to do about it? Not a fuck of a lot, I imagine, so quit whining. But, you know, I really must continue writing, if only to keep a record of all the stupid things my kids say. And do. And probably think, but let's not go there.

About the only time I get to write is sitting in airports, which is (unfortunately) where I am now. Columbus. Half a week in Ann Arbor, half a week in Chicago, one week in Columbus, now home. About bloody time. At the meeting, Bard and I performed to specification, trading nasty limericks and rude remarks about each other. As I keep pointing out, I'm not asked to speak for the scientific content, only for the entertainment value. I try to please. I was even interviewed for some PBS TV thing. They merely commented that I was "dynamic". Meaning I talk too much, no doubt. I made sure I wasn't rude on TV though, which was quite heroic of me if you think about it.

Chicago was as usual. Blues bars with Pepe, Alex and Sabina. Pool. Loud music. Gin and tonic. Hooray. Desperately try to focus on work the next day. To the Randolph St. Depot the next day, my favourite sleazy bar by Loyola. Very sleazy, very barry. Sabina got harassed by a drunk gentleman who was so deeply taken with her that we had to leave. As I said... sleazy. I'd harass her myself if I thought I could get away with it. I'd rather keep my teeth. And testicles.

Columbus was as usual as well. Warmer than the winter, which shouldn't come as too much of a surprise. Lots more talks, lots of students, oh dear, happy hours every night (it's important to be happy in my opinion), and limericks with Stella and Rebecca. Ouch. Nasty. If I'm brave enough I'll put some of them in my collection. Or not. The last night I actually got invited to a Death Metal show, and then to a whips and chains club for after-show fun. I was tempted, but sanity prevailed. I suspect I'd stand out in a crowd of 21 year olds, and was almost certainly invited only as a curiosity.

My kids: Sarah, 13 now, but telling everybody she's 14. Writing fit to burst, but she won't let me read her web stories. They probably contain explicit sex between Hermione and Draco. I suspect that's her style, although I wish I didn't have to. She wants a tattoo, blue hair, and lots of piercings. Fine, say I, I don't give a shit. Pass me a needle and I'll do it, it'll be cheaper. And I'll come with you and we'll get our hair done together. Cool. Matching father/daughter pair doing some bonding kind of thing at the hairdresser's. For some reason she doesn't seem so keen on that idea. She's a real baby Goth, black eyeliner and all. So cute.

Paul, 10. Computer games, football, insects, reading. He writes stories too. As he said to Grandpa: "When Brian Jacques writes a story he puts in all this boring stuff about spring days, and dew on the flowers, and the early morning air and stuff. I'm going to skip all that and just go straight to the sword fighting". Right. Why am I not surprised?

Kate, 8. Cutest little face, big eyes, curly hair, FOUL temper, stroppy as hell. But quite irresistible when she wants to be. That just about sums her up.

Work: Much the same. Sometimes boring, mostly not. Politics, bullshit, fuckwit colleagues, nice colleagues, stupid arguments, brain-dead students, the usual.

Music: Not happening at all. One band only, and that playing only irregularly. I'm not sure I care. I haven't decided yet. But I think I do. Maybe I'll wait a bit longer, another six months or so, until I'm really sure I want to get back into that again. It'll take an effort to get back in. Once you're out, you don't exist any more. And I hate to hustle work. We'll see, we'll see. If I never go out at night I'm perfectly happy not playing. But as soon as I go out to a bar, or whatever, I want to be the one on stage, not the one watching, and I go all itchy again.

And last, but certainly not least, Monique. Beautiful, as ever. Loving, as ever. And greatly loved, as much as ever, if not more so.